A Life Of Perpetual Motion

We run from the quiet, we drown in the sound Every thought pulls us deeper where nothing is found Our hearts beat restless with aimless desire Chasing illusions that never expire The silence is foreign, a stranger at best But stillness demands us to sit and confess We flee from ourselves in a desperate dance Never aware we're erasing our chance What if the noise isn't progress or gain? What if we're trapped in a self-spinning chain? Siting still for an hour cuts deep in the brain (It cuts into the brain) In the quiet, you'll find both compunction and pain (The puncturing pain) A man once warned of this hollow compulsion (Hollow compulsion) Our hearts trapped in cycles of endless repulsion Perpetual motion—no rest in the soul A life never silent will never be whole The ticking hand beckons, the clock never sleeps We dance through distractions while nothing runs deep Our minds crave the trivial, the fleeting delight Blinded by screens that steal every night The weight of existence is heavier still When silence is something we can't seem to will We mask the discomfort with tasks we pursue But in all our escaping, the emptiness grew What if the fear isn't silence itself? But the truth we avoid when alone with ourselves? Siting still for an hour cuts deep in the brain (It cuts into the brain) In the quiet, you'll find both compunction and pain (The puncturing pain) A man once warned of this hollow compulsion (Hollow compulsion) Our hearts trapped in cycles of endless repulsion Perpetual motion—no rest in the soul A life never silent will never be whole The loudest of prisons has no bars to break It's the tick of distractions we refuse to forsake Every second we move is a second we lose Escaping from truth is the freedom we choose But in the end, we're only running in place Afraid of the silence that forces us to face The person we've buried, the soul we've ignored The life we abandoned for the chaos we adore Siting still for an hour cuts deep in the brain (It cuts into the brain) In the quiet, you'll find both compunction and pain (The puncturing pain) A man once warned of this hollow compulsion (Hollow compulsion) Our hearts trapped in cycles of endless repulsion Perpetual motion—no rest in the soul A life never silent will never be whole Stillness is exile, or so we believe But only in silence can our hearts be relieved Pascal was right, though his words we dismiss Most of our torment is born out of this